It's been a while now since Poland unofficially moved into Lithuania's bed. It's nice in a way she never expected. They can talk until talk gets vague, and fall asleep without the other minding. There's warmth and plenty of room for them both. She wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night and—usually after a little guilty redistribution of blankets—can fall back to sleep easier to the sound of Liet's breathing. It's nice.

But before any of that, there's always this moment. Liet starts to get undressed (because they're like royalty, they have special bed-shirts only for use in bed) and Poland looks away.

She's seen bodies. Her own. But other people's as well, to be sure; mostly when she was younger, before she lived in a palace. And dead bodies. They wash them for burial. Different, but just as ridiculous. Bodies. They're like, bits. Fleshy. Odd shapes. She's also seen the dead and wounded in battle, and sometimes they're cut about in the most absurd ways. Looted corpses are the worst. That's a different disgust, of course. But clothes definitely improve the average body. Nakedness is a stupid childish joke; how else do you explain the illustrations in books? Show me your boobs! she'd said, and that was hilarious, right? Right. That said, she is pretty certain Lithuania's body would not disgust her. That wouldn't be the issue.

Liet says she doesn't care what she wears because it's only clothes, it's just things. But for Poland it's art, and it's armour. Liet thinks Poland loves clothes, that's she's obsessed with them (she thinks this fondly), and it's sort of true. Clothes are a source of endless fascination but sometimes she wishes they weren't. So you see these bolts of cloth, light and heavy and stiff and shimmering, totally beautiful. And then you get to wrap yourself up in the stuff and sometimes that makes sense of things. It's like, restructuring yourself. It's like painting over the cracks. Anyway it's something else to focus on. It's annoying, though, that there's nothing sure-fire, foolproof. Like sometimes she thinks, yes this is it this is The dress, the Perfect Dress, put it on and I will always feel sure. And other times: same dress and just no, and why not? For the sake of shoulders and hips? curves and the thickness of lines? bodies, bodies, bodies.

Today it was outside all afternoon for tilting and horsemanship (and they must do everything properly and in turn, for all Poland protests: "but I know all this, we've been in actual battles"—unlike the pipsqueak boys they're training with). And so they are attired like their peers, rather than in dresses perfect or otherwise. It keeps things simple. And the practice pad armour went perfect with the garland of poppies Poland wove for herself in bored moments. ("How did you have time?" Lithuania demanded, carefully removing the thing to stop it being crushed by her helmet.)

…She has seen Lithuania naked. She must have. They went swimming together only this summer gone.

But. Then they were friends, but not kissing. Once you have kissed your friend, kissed her like that, it's different. Don't ask why or how, it just is.

So now as Lithuania undresses she won't look, but now she is a-wondering, she's so so aware of what she's not seeing. She has seen her unclothed before, yes she must have, but it was nothing remembered—now she would remember.

Liet stops what she's doing. The cessation of the rustle of fabric is sudden and sharp as the strike of flint and tinder, as a drawn sword.

"It's alright," Lithuania says quietly. "Um. You can look. If you want. If you remember…"

Poland freezes.

"…didn't you ask something like that when we met?"

She's smiling, Poland can hear it. She bites her lip. What to do.

"Po, I… you know I really like you? And, I really trust you, so…"

(Poland, frowning at a song about a wandering knight seducing a shepherd girl: but, I can't imagine how you could do… that… with someone you didn't really know, and. And—trust.)

Oh. Oh, alright then, I see how it is. (They're closing in on the other word.)

In three-two-one, I'm going to spin around quickly and say something hilarious.

She doesn't. She awkwardly staggers about to face Lithuania, and has no words at all.

Liet is stripped down to her braies, her top half completely bare. She wears a customary expression, half-shy and half-assertive, and most of all determined—and then she sees something in Poland's face that turns her lips up into a smile. Poland thinks she's beautiful.

And the point is, it used to be different things, three different things. One: seeing something beautiful. Two: friendship, kinship, the heart leaping and exclaiming you too? I thought I was the only one! Three: people call it hunger but that's wrong, that's too ravening and hierarchical, it's more like anticipation, like tomorrow is Christmas Day, like we've nearly arrived.

She'd thought they were all different.

But she looks at Liet now and it's everything at once, and stronger than ever before. Struck dumb by the sight, heart-warmed because of what this says about their trust, and then this flutter, this jump, this ache that's nothing reasoned at all. She thinks, How is it possible to be so much in want and so much in happiness at the same time?

Poland looks and looks at this body she will one day, if such blessings continue, know as well as her own. Better, maybe, because she doesn't like looking at her own body.

(I am not a woman, I am not a person—this is what she tells herself.
I am a nation: I am not a person—in hopes that this will explain it.

This body I'm in can't ever be the whole story because I am so many men and women and blind men and beaten women and how how. And then the small actualities. Can the arms say to the breasts, "I don't need you" or would that be blasphemy? But I don't, I don't. And when I look my hips are wider rounder than I expect; I expect to look like the page boys I trained with, and is that all it is, habit?

With the clothes-armour on, she could be mistaken for one of them, is that all it is: all-too-simply that she looks half-grown and her mind follows? But that's not quite right. Because her mind can't follow. The image of herself flies away from her, and on a different day the Perfect Dress is a shock. Some people have no memory for faces. She has a blind-spot for her own face, her own body.)

This is all a very old song. These thoughts have worn a track through her mind like centuries of footfall will do even to stone steps. Now, the thoughts pass fleet and light and gone in an instant, leaving her in peace, because Lithuania.

Poland looks and looks and she will never lose the sight, will never lose Liet in face and body from her memory.

It's another kind of beauty under her clothes. This, then, is a body, is not just any body. This is a Woman. This is a lover in the eyes of a lover; is Lithuania, my friend. Is the person I love best in the world (—oh, she's a person, she always was: practically speaking it was only herself Poland ever doubted.) Underneath armour and dresses that are only another kind of armour, this.

Skin tanned in places and freckled, she's lines and curved lines, and candle light pooling shadow in hollows under her collarbones. Her hair is silken and liquid pouring, the heavy braid over one shoulder. The muscles of her arms clearly defined. And all a perfect mix of strength and softness: her shoulders and breasts, her neck, the bridge of her nose. (Poland understands Song of Songs better than she ever did. Even the bits about towers and goats. This is the beloved's beauty.) The hairs that dust her arms rising a little in the chill. Nipples on her breasts darker pink-brown than her lips, circles round like a coin and completely different from Poland's, which is fascinating, actually. Her breasts are rounder and fuller—well that was always clear—but they're not quite even either, looking each way and giving her chest a kind of cockeyed expression. What a funny thought. When Poland stops staring at that particular area and looks up, Liet's smiling, amused and shy-certain, like this reaction is quite gratifying.

"Worth the wait?"

Now show me your boobs!

Poland flushes hot with embarrassment.

"I guess so," Liet concludes.

Then she doesn't seem to know what else to do, so she lets out her hair. She keeps eyes demurely down as she unties it, then shakes it loose and, wow, does she know how this makes a few things move?

Poland needs to say something.

"Liet," she whispers, dry-mouthed, "you're lovely."

Lithuania's smile flickers for a moment before it rekindles bigger and brighter; why are kind words still such a surprise to her? "…Thank you." She reaches for her bed-shirt.

"Wait—" Poland says. "Um." She has to say it, to commit herself. She crosses her arms and grips each sleeve with a hand. "Fair's fair, isn't it? Shall I, um…?"

"It's not a trade deal…" Lithuania says, "you don't have to do anything you don't—"

"—I want to."

"Alright."

We're acting, Poland thinks a little giddily, like we're wed. Like married people. And this is right, because that's what they are. She thought it all out one time, realizing she was only watching the Bishop's face move and not hearing his words—but that was the point, no one ever seems to carefully address how the Commandments are supposed to apply to them. Admittedly it's a bit specialist. But Poland's as competent a theologian as anyone else, she reckons, and she figured it out. This is what Union means to her: forever and always faithful, as long as life is long. She always knew that was what it meant. She had wondered if Liet—being a pagan at the time and without the light of truth—quite understood what she was getting herself into, and felt a bit guilty, in case she didn't. What if she doesn't even like me?

All this time, Poland tried very hard to be extremely interesting and impressive. All this time, she was wondering if she was good enough, wondering what Liet was thinking because it's so, so hard to tell.

—anyway now she dares to hope, to really hope.

(As for herself, forsaking all others was no big thing. She was never interested in marriage or any of those things in the abstract. When the whole Lithuania issue was raised, it was more a case of, well it could have been someone worse. That changed. It could not have been anyone sweeter. Sometimes she wonders, what about all the other nations, are they happy? do they envy us this tremendous secret? And sometimes the thought edges in that might this be related to her Not Being A Person or specifically a Woman? Because two women can't marry, so. So presumably human girls don't feel this way about things. They must understand the song about the knight better than she does. …no, she doesn't quite convince even herself on that point. There's a loose end, a hangnail to worry at some more another time.)

They are doing the things married people do. She's thought this before, since the kissing and things they've half-said, she's wondered if that's where this is going, but now she's sure.

And so now… now she is going to show Lithuania her breasts. Because. That's part of it, isn't it? Because fair's fair. Because she wants to, she wants to, but…

She's shivering. It is cold. But she feels an airless tingle in her fingers that has nothing to do with the chill. She's not looking at Liet anymore. There's blue-black bruising fading in around the edges of her vision. She blinks fast.

She's stuck, utterly frozen on the point of removing her shirt.

And she tries to breathe and feels her ribcage constricted; the fabric stiffer and tighter around her chest than it possibly can be, than it was a moment ago, but of course when you can't remember where you are and what shape moment to moment—I am not a person—Clothes—body—trapped—

(Is it that we are our shapes or only that we have them? This is not who I am, it's just where I stay. Because if it was, if this body was part of me then it should do what I say! And it should feel more like home, instead of like other people's draughty castles and you wake up and think panicked for an instant WHERE AM I? Sometimes I'm fine. Other times: just no, and why? I'm not a person, I'm not a person. And is it the case of the shedding snake or of the hermit crab? Oh, to be a hermit crab! Or do they feel the whole time dissatisfied? I'm a monster, a half-and-half cross-breed mongrel, a manticore…

No one asks if the dragon terrorizing the town is a man dragon or a lady dragon. No-one cares. Except maybe other dragons; what a thoroughly depressing thought.

When the Phoenix immolates and is reborn, is she reborn the same?

-–when you start thinking about immolation it's time to stop— )

Poland doesn't like thinking about this because it makes her unhappy, but it keeps happening all the same. None of this is new. She can remember, or is it that she can imagine, trying to talk about it, and that's worse. No Liet I'm not trying to tell you that I think I'm a dragon.

And here she's still stuck, like her fingers have swollen to three times their size; she can't possibly close them to grip the cloth of her chemise. The undertaking of lifting the thing over her head seems monstrous impossible. And she still can't breathe right. Look up, look out, look at HER! But I can tell I look pathetic like I'm suffocating like I'm drowning and she'll be scared.

This is so stupid.

Come help me! she demands or tries to but she has not enough air to force the plea out.

Liet understands the distress in her words if not the words and, glory and trumpets, she comes to her aid. She almost runs. Worried frown and caring eyes and she's like an angel, only a female one, or a goddess, but one who's kind. "You don't have to," she says again. "Po, l-love, you don't have to do anything, are you alright?"

"I really like you too," Poland whispers, and tries not to gasp for air too obviously. "I really trust you too, I want—You're so beautiful. Help me. You have to promise not to laugh."

"Oh," says Liet, "oh," sounding so hurt by all this, like it hurts her to see Poland in pain. And it's so strange because here she is all naked, anyway half-way (like an angel, like a goddess), and yet still all care, all worries. Or, no, maybe that isn't strange, maybe that's just who she is; maybe, Poland, maybe not everyone has approximately six iterations of themselves running around at all times. So she's concerned. Well and good. You are acting pretty concerning right now.

No, no, thinks Poland, no oh no i've gone again inside my head outside my body, now? at a time like this?

Where is she even looking, what is she seeing, why can't she remember. Now she's head down trying to focus on her blurry hands, blurry like maybe she really is suffocating, light-headed. That or she's crying, which is just pathetic.

"I promise I would never laugh at you," Lithuania says, "what, for the way you look? I would never."

Poland's still looking down and what Liet does is kiss the top of her head. Then just gently nudge her chin up, bend her own head and kiss her on the lips a few times quick and sweet, trying to coax her back. It begins to work.

"You want me to help you undress?" Liet murmurs, "you sure?"

"Mm-hm. Yes, please." In a tiny tiny voice, but growing.

I trust you so entirely right now I could cry. I need you so badly.

Liet must be cold, isn't she cold? Poland's cold. But getting warmer. That's good. And the breathing's back on now, praise be. And what Liet does next is she puts her hands on Poland's shoulders, slight slight pressure says I'm here, you're real, come on back to your body. (There's no way, no way she knows in words this is what she's saying in her actions, is there? Bodies aren't all bad then. Liet's knows what to do.)

She finds Poland's hands with hers, and after all they're still normal size and useable, and helps her.

And once Poland's there with her chemise lying on the floor, bared before her love, yes it really is quite cold, but that shiver might be more excitement.

Lithuania doesn't let go entirely, but holding on with just her fingertips she steps back a little, to get a good look.

"You are gorgeous."

—of course she had to say something, because it's the polite thing, and she said she wouldn't laugh, but Poland gets the feeling she means it. She could have gone with the conventional 'beautiful'. This is less refined and more instinctive and her voice was never so low and throaty, and she's looking at Poland with that flutter, that jump, that ache so clear in her gaze. And it's intense. There's been no one seeing Poland this way, no one allowed to, how could there be?

But it's still good. Still safe. Now Liet's blushing. Classic. They smile at each other. It's like it's a new introduction, only it's cheating because you already know you're going to get along great…

Liet's still Liet and shy too—shy of her own desires maybe, or courteous, but anyway, she holds back and she waits. And now that Poland's started to think about breathing, she notices Liet's, notices how her chest is moving rather rapidly, and thinks it's probably not exactly nerves in this case. (This makes her grin.)

And Poland's supposed to be the impetuous one, right? So it's she who closes the distance between them, puts her arms around Lithuania and kisses her.

"Oh, oh," Liet murmurs and immediately responds.

And there, with Liet's hair pouring silky between them now and their breasts pressed together yielding to each other just enough, there's the revelation. There's the consummation of the familiar and the new.

Like she often does when they're kissing, Poland concentrates on one thing at a time. She counts the heartbeats to a kiss, tries to keep it going until she's getting dizzy and Liet shakes her head, you silly. Twines their fingers together, in several combinations, or with her fingers runs up and down every part of Lithuania's hand without losing touch. Writes their names and the borders of their lands with little invisible marks of love on the bare skin of Liet's back. Puts all her heart, mind and focus into kissing this one corner of her mouth—keep on until Liet makes that particular happy sound. Her favourite game: tries to mirror exactly what Liet's doing, which Liet usually cottons onto sooner or later and they end up with their hands pressed over each other's ears laughing at each other unheard.

She doesn't know exactly what Liet thinks about when they kiss, and maybe she doesn't need to think quite as much. She does know, they both do, not to be too pushing and forceful. (It was one time, and Poland was scared and fell sideways out of her chair, only half on purpose to prove the point—you set the pace that everyone in your group can manage, isn't that the rule?) Wait for each other and it seems to work out. Like, here they are now.

…For all the fuss people make about breasts, though, they're neither of them doing anything in particular about them just now. In fact this is the same basic procedure as kissing with your clothes on. At the same time… the thought has occurred and it seems… it seems like a reasonable future proposition… And every time they move even slightly, and with the cold around them, the sensation everywhere they touch is so strong. They pull at each other like the tides.

We're kissing with our whole bodies.

Well—not quite. That's not yet. And as they kiss again and one of Liet's hands is stroking over Poland's cheek in a way that she really really likes, she thinks about not-yet and it makes her smile, and there's the feeling between a flower in bloom and a forest in flames lower beneath her stomach—oh, not yet, but sometime. This too is a reasonable future proposition.

Giggles bubble up and overflow.

"…whaat?" Lithuania asks, tipsy, eyes huge.

Poland only snorts and shakes her head. Not-yet. Hey Liet I'm thinking about KNOWING you.

"What?" Laughing herself now. "What's funny?" She considers for a moment then quick as a flash her hands move to Poland's sides and tickle mercilessly.

Poland squeals and flees backwards and collapses on the bed, laughing harder, the happiest she's ever been. She doesn't really feel like getting up again now so she settles against the pillows and raises her eyebrows at Liet. Liet who's just standing there looking at her and—

—And it's bizarre, but in her eyes reflected, Poland sees herself as Lithuania sees her. Sprawled on her back in only her braies, hair haphazard about her face, cheeks burning and eyes bright-dark, a little sultry, a little wild. It's totally bizarre: she sees herself unselfconscious. Like the Shepherdess, but not for some trespassing knight, for her own true love who was ever faithful.

"Hey," she says, "hey come here."

Come on over here, I miss you; you've been gone an instant too long.

When Liet comes to her she does roll over onto her side so they lie like that, facing each other and kissing off and on as sleepiness falls heavy upon them now. So Liet doesn't squash her lying on top of her and because, that's not… she's not ready for that, not that, not yet, not quite. But that's fine too. They have as long as life is long, she thinks, there's no hurry. It's like, saving up your presents.

Despite everything, it is still cold. She shivers suddenly and exaggeratedly and snuggles up close close, loving the feeling of being able to want and ask this of this person. Stay with me. Keep me warm. Treasure me like that, as precious as you are to me.

"Alright," Liet sighs, and briefly lets go of her to attend to pulling the covers up.

"Can we just stay, go to sleep like this?" Poland asks.

"Yeah. You'll be warm enough?"

"Mm-hmm." She nuzzles Liet's shoulder. "I think I'll cope. You?"

"Yeah." She strokes her hair. "I love you."

"I love you."

Later, when she wakes as usual in the small hours, Poland has a moment of clarity she will hardly recall.

She thinks, the thought like cool spring water to a man dying of thirst: my problems are not insurmountable.

I am a person.

This is going to be hard to hold on to, but she does think it. Try to remember: I am a person.

It's not even the nation thing. A person. Where was your theology? In each of us something of all, Knight and Lady both; and God said In Our image; in His image He They created, male and female. He's neither one nor the other, who says so? (It doesn't help that the Female never had the chance of a fair fight. It's always, You're a nation and a competent soldier and tactician despite of your fragile womanly frame. So, she thinks, am I supposed to feel anything about this womanly frame one way or another? Maybe not. Who cares? Maybe it's just the way they, the men, go on about it, talk and write about it: manly pride, manly virtue—as if virtue modifies, while of course women's pride is uniquely sinful…) But language is imprecise, poetry is a hint, we are His Offspring. You are not altogether comfortable in your shape; well, so be it, that is a difficulty. Don't harrow yourself like this for having difficulties. The blind and beaten are no less people for it; she would never have said such a thing to anyone else, so why deny her own personhood?

Poland even thinks that tomorrow maybe she'll talk to Liet about this stuff.

Not about the dragons and everything, but it would be good to get so far as, Sometimes I get like that, panicked and frightened, and it's not your fault. Because, Liet's probably assuming it is. …well, not frightened… Yes, frightened. Because this is nothing I can fight. (I just want you to bear with me. If she can get this far that would be amazing.)

(She's always imagined it must be very peaceful in Liet-land inside Liet's head. Like very clear and impossibly pure water, like amber without any bugs in it. The calm and logical solving of problems, with intervals of nervous panic and yelling for no reason. Well. She might be missing something there. Maybe Liet will someday talk to her about it and help her understand.)

Anyway.

I am not apart from this world, I am in it, a part of it.

I move this body, and see right there, that was me. She wriggles her fingers, tap tap tap gently on Lithuania's shoulder and she sighs in her sleep and moves towards her; it is both this heart and this body that warms to her closeness.

I am a person. I am not rattling about in my shell. I am not a ghost possessing my own form. It is one. I am one.

She lets Lithuania's breathing soothe her back to sleep.

We are one. And I am with you, for always.